


a certain kind of burning

by Neko-no-Tsuki (LunaKat)



Category: InuYasha - A Feudal Fairy Tale
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Introspection, Near Death Experiences, Stream of Consciousness, Youkai InuYasha (InuYasha)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:01:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26581054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaKat/pseuds/Neko-no-Tsuki
Summary: For Inuyasha Sins Week. Day 2: Wrath.There are people that go quietly in their sleep, sure. But just because it’s quiet on the outside doesn’t mean it’s quiet on the inside.
Kudos: 11
Collections: Inuyasha's Seven Deadly Sins





	a certain kind of burning

_“Fire really means **a certain kind of burning** in the soul that one can no longer tolerate when one is pushed against a wall.”_  
—Cornel West

Death, Inuyasha learns early in his life, is never gentle, and always angry.

There are people that go quietly in their sleep, sure. But just because it’s quiet on the outside doesn’t mean it’s quiet on the inside.

For all you know, the people passing on in their sleep, seemingly content with their timely end, are screaming through their nightmares. For all you know, those people are clawing at the darkness and burning like supernovae about to go off, cursing the injustice of their mortality rearing its ugly head. For all you know, they are raging against a world that is trying to rip them bloodily from their body, screaming into a void where none can hear that they want to _keep living_.

This is how Inuyasha is sure he’ll go. He’s unconscious on the ground, the soil thick with blood that is both his and isn’t. Every breath is copper-thick with the stench of Goshinki’s victims. The oni’s claw-marks sear his flesh open, scorch his torso with agony. And he is not awake, but he is _aware_.

He always got the feeling death had something against him. That he pissed it off, somewhere down the line. Maybe because he’s just youkai enough to thwart its tricks more deftly than any mortal, but just human enough that it feels entitled to his life. It always likes to torment him before it takes him, send pain blistering through his blood before it arrives in a sultry black veil.

Death is never gentle—it is violent and vengeful, leering down at him with a rictus grin, and grows all the more furious every time he escapes by the skin of his fangs.

But not this time. This time, it’s going to take him. Take, and keep him.

Crimson throbs behind his eyelids. His stomach boils with frustration. In his death-dreams, he can hear Naraku’s triumphant laughter. And he has never felt hatred quite as black as the one that rears up in him just then.

He wants to tear something apart. Sate the violent, furious impulse that suddenly springs to life in his belly. Sink his claws into the bastard’s flesh until crimson spurts sticky-hot between his fingers and paints his hands in liquid life. Rip the body to ribbons and laugh over the screaming victim until only a contorted corpse is left. See if the fucking bastard is so fucking smug _then_.

No. This should _not_ be how it ends. With a shattered sword and an oni’s sneering as the last thing he ever hears. With his friends defenseless behind him, damned by his failure.

Sango can’t move. Miroku can’t act around the saimyosho. Shippo’s powerless. Kagome’s in danger.

He can’t _die_ here.

That thought snaps him back into consciousness. It’s a hazy consciousness, his vision greyed by exhaustion, the pain burning scarlet against his periphery. And rage bursts behind his ribs when he realizes, with a fiery horror, that he _can’t move_.

His mind is willing, but his body isn’t strong enough. He’s going to die. He’s going to die here in the dirt, but dammit—

He wants to live.

He wants to _fucking live_.

Someone approaches. A voice, quavering. “Hey mister? Are you dead yet?”

The boy, he realizes through the blazing haze of sheer frustration. One of those two brats whose parents were devoured. The ones whose family he was trying to avenge. And now he’s going to die because—

No. _Fuck_ that. He’s not dead yet. And he’s definitely not going to _fucking die_ here.

Something flares in him. Pulses hot and angry, rips through every fiber of his being. It feels like being torn open. It feels like a dam bursting. It feels like being scorched alive from the inside out.

He needs to _live_. He needs to help Sango save Kohaku, close the Wind Tunnel on Miroku’s hand, beat the snot out of Shippo for being a brat. He needs to avenge Kikyo, protect Kagome. He needs to kill Naraku.

Kill.

Searing clarity comes over him, like molten crystal surging through his veins. Like a fissure welling up with magma. Like a firework going off inside his head. He wants to live. He wants to _kill_.

Both of them are throbbing through him in time with his own heartbeat. Fighting for supremacy. Trying to figure out which is more important, but maybe they go in tandem. The world is survival of the fittest. Kill or be killed.

If he wants to live, he has to kill. Kill everyone. Anyone. Whatever’s in his way. Slather his claws in blood until the burning in him quiets into satisfaction.

Burn. Burning. He’s _burning_. His blood is pumping too hot and too quick through his veins, an inferno raging beneath his skin. It’ll char him down to his bones if he’s not careful but he’s too furious to care.

Because he’s suddenly aware of the strength coiled inside his limbs, the power that’s brimming over in his blood. And that he never noticed it before—this _blistering_ essence, this _blazing_ power, this amazing strength that’s too much too fast and burn burn _burning_ —fills him with a primal _rage_.

Goshinki is laughing. Oh, you want something to laugh about Goshinki? He’ll give him something to _fucking laugh_ about!

It is with a great, _visceral_ pleasure that he rends the arm from the oni’s body.

It isn’t enough. It isn’t enough. He wants to keep killing. It isn’t enough it isn’t enough it isn’t enough—

Keep killing keep killing keeping killing keep—

When everything is finally over, when the burning in his head stops and the red in his vision clears, when Goshinki lies nearby in giant bloody pieces—Kagome reaches out to touch his shoulder and murmurs, “What _happened_ to you?”

And Inuyasha doesn’t know. All he remembers is the blackness pounding in his head when he was unconscious and then waking up wanting to paint it red. He remembers the fire in his blood, the ferocity in his belly, the utter _rage_. He remembers hating death and craving life and the sheer, dizzying _ecstasy_ of ripping his opponent apart.

He can still feel it, throbbing beneath his bones. Waiting, waiting, waiting. His blood feels too hot as it seeps from his wounds and cools on his skin.

**Author's Note:**

> Is it cliche to use youkai!Inuyasha for the wrath theme? Probably. What's your point?


End file.
